


Dancing in Space

by ljs



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU post-"Journey's End."</p><p> </p><p>  <em>You never know when you'll find yourself trembling, cold, and alone by the river.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing in Space

Tegan Jovanka has one more flight before she retires from her long career as a flight attendant. (The career's so long, in fact, that she remembers when she was called an air hostess. And 'girl.' And 'hey, Legs, you want to pull me another lager?', although no traveller called her Legs more than once.) It's a twist of fate, she thinks, that this last time she's routed to London Heathrow.

In the past twenty-five years, she's mostly stayed away from London. It's a tricky place, y'see. You never know when a phone box will become a time machine there. You never know when you'll see good people die at the hands of maniacs (Masters or Daleks, no matter; Tegan sees little difference in the result). You never know when you'll find yourself trembling, cold, and alone by the river.

She has a twenty-four-hour layover on this last trip, however. She finds herself on the South Bank, in the midst of theatre-goers and skateboarders and tourists and a string quartet playing outside the National Theatre. She finds herself wrapped up, sad, and alone by the river.

"Not too far from here,” she murmurs, and sinks down onto a bench, and looks out over the water and time.

_A warehouse, with death all around them. She is so tired, so aching, and the decision is made before she consciously thinks about it. She's going home._

_She puts out a hand, and he takes it. Sort of. Her Doctor is so bloody awkward sometimes, he doesn't quite know how to deal with a woman like her. He doesn't seem happy to have her go, but he'll be all right, she thinks. He'll save a few worlds, get a few people killed, hit a few cricket balls. He'll be... the Doctor._

“'It's not fun any more,'” she says in memory, in the present, and she wrinkles her nose. God, that had been a stupid thing to say.

The wind stirs the water. Somewhere, a horn sounds, louder than the music, and she thinks of the Cloister Bell on the TARDIS. Beware, beware....

And then, on another breeze and a long-held note from a violin, she remembers holding out her hand to him on a different occasion.

_"You didn't dance with me back there,” she says sharply. The music from the country-house party is still stirring in her, though; she can't seem to stand still._

_“No, I was otherwise occupied. Dead bodies and mysteries, you know,” he replies, just as sharply. “Locked in, you know.” He's a tetchy one._

_But she holds her hand out more insistently, and he takes it. Sort of. Warm alien-boy hand, which is pleasant to hold._

_“You can dance with me now, can't you?” she says._

_He blows a lock of floppy blond hair off his forehead, as if he were a petulant little boy. He's not, he's quite old, but sometimes... Then he smiles at her, and he looks very young, and she feels herself travelling in space, spinning just a bit through the stars. (Well, she _is_. On the TARDIS and all.)_

_“Well, why not,” he says, and the TARDIS begins to play a tune somehow – not quite familiar, just a little foreign. Holding on tight, he swings her far, far out. She is dancing in space, spinning through the stars._

Another breeze brings her back here. South Bank, bench, last trip to London. Right.

She's been through a husband, a long-term lover, and a couple of passing fancies she can hardly remember. She's known love. But it is nice to have the memory of that dance in space, and that smile.

Wrapping her chunky coat more securely around her throat, she stands --

And is almost run down by a swift-moving pedestrian. “Hey!” Tegan says aggressively.

The woman who almost smacked into her – red-haired, solid, dressed in office-gear – stops. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn't see where I was going. Didn't...” The woman's forehead creases in pain, and Tegan feels an immediate wave of sympathy to replace the irritation. “Sorry,” the woman says again. “Just got a terrible headache, I don't know why.”

The woman does look a bit unsteady on her pins. “Right,” Tegan says briskly, “Let's get you sorted. You need a hot drink or something to set you right... National Film Theatre's cafe is right here, let's head inside.”

“Thanks,” the woman says, a little woozily, and accepts Tegan's unobtrusive arm in support and her murmured name. In return, she says her name is Donna.

As they move toward the glass front of the cafe, however, Donna adds, “It's just... and I know this sounds barking mad, but... Do you ever have these flashes, right, of the... well, of the bloody stars?"

There's another long-held note from the violin. The tune is not quite familiar, a little foreign, and Tegan can feel old music travelling through her as she dances in memory, in space.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Tegan says, and they go through the doors of the cafe.


End file.
